


Delicious Solitude

by voleuse



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 04:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: “Sandy. Like Sascha and Andy. You know, like Brangelina.”





	Delicious Solitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts).



> Set approximately around the time of the Hopman Cup. (I may have watched [**the video of their hug during the Hopman Cup**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-X8oujzJ6c) approximately a million times while writing this.)

**i. _their uncessant labors see crowned_**  
Sascha understood the need for the spotlight more than he actually wanted to be in it. He didn’t mind it, necessarily, but compared to so many of the others, he knew his youth showed. Put him in front of a camera and he fully became aware of his height, his posture, the way his shoulders would drop forward, just a little, projecting his discomfort.

He wished, often, that the folks who filmed his appearances on the red carpet were the same ones who filmed him on the court. Maybe then, somehow, they’d capture him in movement, in certainty, instead of when he was trapped in moments where he just wanted someone, _anyone_ , to ratify his social existence.

 

 **ii. _society is all but rude_**  
He’d met Andrea before at events like these before, of course--the “celebrity tennis” world was a small one, and friendly rivalry was the mode of choice. (Better, he would remind himself, than being remembered for poor sportsmanship or, he’d remember with an extra wince, being caught cursing at an officiant on camera.) She was bright, and funny, and it felt like she had running jokes with everyone in the room except him. The first time they’d met, she’d barely noticed his name, but she’d smiled and playfully poked him in the arm. He’d forgotten what she’d said, but he’d relived that moment of contact more than once.

When his agent suggested he might be paired up with her for the Hopman Cup competition, Sascha had spent an entire night watching videos from her YouTube channel. ( _You’re well-matched_ , his coaches said. _It’ll be good PR for you_ , his agent said. _Good exposure._ ) _That_ , he thought to himself. _I’ll learn to do that_.

*

Shooting the promos for Hopman Cup were less awkward than he expected. He’d received the “script” a few days in advance, and had practiced with _almost_ the same fervor he’d put into preparation for the match itself. He appreciated whoever had crafted his side of the conversations--quiet, amused, and in on the joke.

Due to travel arrangements, it ended up that he met with Andrea to record the promos before they had any time to practice. He and his team arrived a bit early. (There were negotiations about his hair styling that he couldn’t completely follow, so he escaped the conversation whenever possible.) Andrea swept into the session on the dot, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, and her lipstick a bright slash that mesmerized him. 

She nodded to the staff, and to his own team, while her own people started setting up. She walked over to him immediately. “Can I call you Sascha?” she asked, enveloping him in a brief hug that startled him into a laugh. “You can call me Andy, if you want,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. Her shoulder was warm, where his hand pressed against it. He fought the urge to fidget with his hair. “This,” he gestured to the set, which included a table scattered with coins, three video cameras, and eight people with paparazzi-level gear. “This should be fun, yes?”

She crossed her eyes, jesting. “If we want it to be,” she said. “Have they got coffee, do you think?”

“Um,” Sascha said, before following her to the craft services table.

 **iii. _when we have run our passion’s heat_**  
When they finally had time to practice, in between the interviews and the photoshoots and the hairstylist-wrangling, Sascha finally felt he could relax. His coach had had him watch innumerable videos of her playing, and he’d developed a good sense of her strengths (impressively strong backhand) and her weaknesses (quick pivots, probably due to old surgeries). As they set up for a practice match, he watched her bounce on her toes, acclimating to the court, and strum her fingers across the racket, as if she was about to air guitar.

She caught his gaze, stuck out her tongue. Did, in fact, do some air guitar before their coaches came along.

And then they played, and he saw her eyes narrow as she developed a sense of the court. The way she’d twitch her shoulder right before he returned her serve. How she’d drum her fingers against her thigh when a stroke went awry.

He liked the way she looked at him, in between sets. As if she was seeing him anew, and worthy.

 **iv. _still in a tree did end their race_**  
They arrived at the New Year’s gala together--or, rather, they arrived a few blocks away, separately, then were shuttled to the red carpet in a pre-arranged limo. (Sascha had learned to accept whatever his PR staff deemed important, no matter what logistical questions he wanted to ask.) Andrea watched him tug at his suit with a smile, and he tried not to gawk at her, at the line his eyes wanted to draw from the glitter of her earrings, across her throat, and--

“Are you nervous, Sascha?” He jerked his attention back to her face, and it didn’t do all that much to calm him. She reached out, caught his hands in her own. “It’s a party,” she said. “The cameras are mostly just the walk in.”

He nodded, and then the limo was stopping, and he had to figure out how to exit without tripping over his own feet.

*

A few hours later, Sascha was only slightly tipsy from the champagne. (None of the players drank more than two or three glasses, most using a half-empty glass to signify merriment without drinking another drop.) He was chatting with one of the Czech coaches when Andrea caught his attention from across the room.

By the time he reached her, she was slipping through one of the service doors, reaching back to catch his hand while they navigated the corridors, the harsh white fluorescent light a blunt contrast to the soft light of the party proper.

“Here,” she finally said, cracking open the door of what appeared to be a coatroom. Aside from the buzzing of a misaligned vent, it was silent, and empty.

“Andy,” he said, “what--”

But by then she was sliding her hands up his neck and tugging his head down, and her mouth tasted like champagne and sea salt. He stooped, his hands tracing down her back before cupping her, pulling her up, pressing her against a concrete wall. Her teeth scraped against his throat as he pushed her skirt aside, and her hands were nimble as she undid his trousers, and he only had a moment of thrilled incredulity before she was arching as he pushed into her, and really, he didn’t have much of a memory after that.

 **v. _annihilating all that’s made to a green thought_**  
That was what he remembered, when they almost crashed into each other during the match, their rackets clacking against each other. His heart pounded as he tried to catch her breath, and he watched the way she assessed the court, doing the same calculations he’d been habituated into doing.

He didn’t think about it, but he reached out, palm hovering just an inch away from the small of her back, and when she finally looked over at him, her brow smoothed, and she leaned against him, and the cameras around them were the furthest thing from his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and headings adapted from Andrew Marvell’s “The Garden.” Summary taken from [**the Hopman Cup "team name" promo**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yI-pGCvIZc).


End file.
